


unexpected turn of events

by NotPersephone



Series: Count and Countess Lecter [28]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Caring Hannibal, F/M, Hair Washing, Happy marrieds have an eventful day, Hurt/Comfort, No pun intended, sex related injury, with a fun twist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-06 13:29:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18852022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotPersephone/pseuds/NotPersephone
Summary: Bedelia frowns and takes the fork in her good hand; she knows he feels responsible for what happened to her, but it is not his fault. If anything, it is hers.It was her who engaged in that position in the first place.





	unexpected turn of events

She observes his skilled fingers wrapped around a fork and a knife, cutting loin into pieces, soft meat giving away with ease under the pressure of elegant silver cutlery. The already small slice is being divided into tinier ones, each cut more miniscule than the one before, making Bedelia wonder whether anything will be left of the meal in the end.

“Hannibal, you do not have do this,” she comments as another miniature segment appears on the plate in front of her as he portions the meat for her.

Hands pause briefly, but Hannibal says nothing, merely glancing at her, a worried flicker in his eyes. Bedelia sighs softly; her arm might be in a sling, but she is perfectly capable of using the utensils. She shifts her wrist forward as if to prove a point, but a sharp pain in the shoulder stops her in her tracks. A whimper escapes her lips and Hannibal’s eyes become wider at once, distress illuminated brilliantly within them; he returns to his task with fresh fervour.

“That is sufficient, thank you,” she says, genuinely appreciative, the echo of the pain being an acute reminder of her being at temporary disadvantage.

Hannibal nods and sets the silverware down on each side, forefinger and thumb adjusting its placement to ensure a perfect parallel to the plate. Only then he takes his seat and interest in his own meal. Bedelia watches as he unravels his napkin, fingers stroking his own cutlery in silent contemplation. He continues to appear worried.

“Are you not going to chew it for me?” she asks with a playful smile, attempting to break the silence with a shot of humour, but Hannibal just flinches and offers her a nervous half smile before focusing his gaze back on his plate.

Bedelia frowns and takes the fork in her good hand; she knows he feels responsible for what happened to her, but it is not his fault. If anything, it is _hers_.

It was her who engaged in that position in the first place.

 

She had never considered herself being particularly enthusiastic of sex, but it all changed with Hannibal. It no longer surprised her, how unrestrained she felt with him. There was pleasure, _oh so much pleasure_ , but it was more than that, there was intimacy and freedom that set her body and mind aflame. And the fire kept burning brightly.

There was no better way to spend the afternoon that enjoying each other’s bodies, a notion they liked to put to use as often as possible. Like today; two different rooms, three different positions and endless satisfaction. And they were nowhere near the end of their appetite.

Bedelia’s body was pulsating with pleasure, feeling lavish under Hannibal’s worship. He gave her so much fulfilment and she was ready to give him something in return. Her hips swaying with quiet purpose, he led him to a nearest chair, gently pushing him to sit down. He followed her lead obediently, eyes shining with boyish anticipation, a look she adored. She stroke his face as he settled himself in the seat, all ready to pull her on his lap. But she stopped him with a press of her hand against his damp chest, rising and falling noticeable under her touch as his breathing became heavier once more. His eyes turning a shade darker, he watched, mesmerised, as she straddled his lap with her legs splayed apart, taking him in, then slowly leaned back, resting her hands behind her on the floor.

The sudden inhale became a series of loud groans leaving Hannibal’s mouth at the sight of her body in such full display, the exact reaction she was hoping for, arousing her in turn. She smiled, feeling his stare slowly perusing her whole as she began to move back and forth against him. His hands soon joined the admiration, caressing the lines of her breasts, brushing her stomach, then finally settling between her parted legs. She moaned in approval as his fingers begun to press and stroke, helping her along the way to her third orgasm of the day.

But unfortunately, she never made it there.

Bedelia was nearing her release when her sweaty palms began to lose their grip. Slowing her rhythm, she tried to adjust their placing, but it only weakened her hold further. She was barely aware when her body suddenly moved backwards making her lose her balance, her feet abandoning the support of the chair. She felt Hannibal attempting to grab her hips, but it was too late; his hands barely glided over her skin. She tried to reach her arm back to soften the fall, yet it only slipped further, causing a sudden twist to her shoulder and a firm press of her body on top of it. Her previous bliss turned into sharp pain, exploding in stars behind her eyes. It was not the kind of climax she was striving for.

“Bedelia!” Hannibal knelt next to her at once, his eyes glistening with sudden panic, something she had never seen him display. The sight surprised her more than her clumsiness, even if it lasted mere moments before his usual composure took over the situation.

“Are you all right?” he asked more calmly, still his eyes were surveying her with deep concern.

“Yes, I am,” she tried to dismiss the event, feeling embarrassed that her erotic display ended in such an ungraceful way, silently scorning her flexibility. But her words were contradicted by an involuntary cry of pain she uttered when Hannibal wrapped his arm around her back.

“No, you are hurt,” his other arm encircled her legs and he lifted her up gently, trying not to aggravate her injury.

Soon, she was placed on the bed and wrapped in a robe, a glass of water in her unexpectedly shaky hands, while Hannibal examined her shoulder with utmost delicacy.

“Hannibal, it is just a sprain,” she tried to reassure him and herself at the same time. It hurt, but she was able to move her arm, indicating no severe damage was done. “All I need is some ice,” she pressed on as he continued to look beyond worried, slowly pulling the fabric of her robe up to cover her shoulder, but not leaving her side.

It was a strange sensation; the remnants of their shared pleasure still kindling within her and the painful return to reality rendering her body and mind confused. Her legs felt weak and she did not know which of the events was responsible for that. At least her throbbing shoulder made its origin clear.

“You need to go to the hospital,” Hannibal stated after a moment of silence, betraying a determined consideration.

“No, that is not necessary, Hannibal,” Bedelia shook her head dismissively; there was no point of driving all that way for a sprained muscle.

But his gaze was unwavering, and she knew he would not be persuaded. And she was too fatigued to argue.

“I need to get dressed then,” she conceded, and Hannibal rushed to her wardrobe.

It took him a while to return; selecting a hospital appropriate outfit appeared to be quite challenging. He settled for a casual chic of a skirt and a blouse. Bedelia did not comment, wanting to put this undertake behind her as soon as possible. But she did insist on an addition of underwear which Hannibal seemed to completely forget. She let him help her dress, holding her arm close to her body, careful not to move her shoulder, but it proved impossible as she needed to place it in the sleeve eventually. The effort ended in further stabs of pain, clearly reflected on her face, enforcing Hannibal’s resolve and diminishing hers. After quickly dressing himself, he guided her downstairs.

The journey passed in tentative silence with Hannibal trying to keep his eyes on the road ahead while throwing anxious side glances at Bedelia every now and then. And Bedelia was trying hard not to smile; now that the initial shock had passed, she could not help but feel amused by the nature of her injury. She had never experienced _adventures_ of that kind when she was younger, but it seemed it was never too late to make up for it. Perhaps it would be best to keep the details of the incident to a minimum, Bedelia thought, finding it hard to imagine recalling the truth to a random stranger. It is not like Bedelia to feel embarrassed and yet here she was, concocting a suitable cover story in her mind. How surreal, she pressed her lips to conceal another smile, hoping the doctor’s sense of smell would not rival Hannibal’s as the aroma of sex was still clinging firmly to their skins.

When they finally arrived at the hospital, Hannibal put his skills to an instant use, making sure she was seen immediately. A quick scan later, they both found themselves waiting in the doctor’s office, Hannibal pacing nervously behind Bedelia’s chair, her arm now resting safely in a sling.

“There is no permanent tissue damage, it is just a sprain,” the on-call doctor announced upon entering, placing the scans on the light board for them to see, which Hannibal thoroughly did, before returning to sit next to her.

He made an attempt at translating the diagnosis, but she narrowed her eyes and shook her head; she understood perfectly. And she was glad to be proven right.

“I understand you had fallen while getting off the horse?” the doctor looked through Bedelia’s admission notes.

“Yes,” she confirmed smoothly, feeling Hannibal suddenly tensing next to her. The nature of the injury was not sitting well with him either; Bedelia stifled another smile as a hazard to her cover.

The doctor gave them both a mindful stare, but said nothing, sitting behind his desk.

“You need plenty of rest and avoid putting pressure on that side,” he explained while filling in the prescription for pain medication.

“And no vigorous activities for the time being,” he handed the paper to Bedelia and glanced at Hannibal with a smile and an almost wink.

Bedelia swallowed a smirk, while Hannibal’s gaze sharpen at once, his predatory calm replacing his previous unease. Not wanting to test the limits of her composure or her husband’s restrain, she stood up, ready to depart, making Hannibal focus on her instead. She thanked the doctor and let Hannibal assist her in their way to the car, hoping no more adventures befell them that day.

 

She now smiles at the memory, slowly eating her meat, tiny bit by tiny bit. The over exaggerated trim did not compromise the quality; it tastes as delicious as always. She hums, enjoying the exquisite flavour, melting on her tongue in lemon and herbs and making her almost forget about the unexpected events of the afternoon.

But Hannibal does not.

She finishes her meal with a glass of water, setting the fork and napkin down, preparing to leave, and Hannibal almost jumps up from his seat, ready to assist her, but Bedelia raises her unrestricted arm.

“I am fine,” she assures him with a firm stare that makes him sit back down, “I am going to lie down for a moment.”

She makes her way towards the door and is glad that Hannibal does not follow. Still feeling the throb in her shoulder, she remembers that the pain medication was left on her nightstand, but she does not want to worry him more.

The pain returns afresh as she walks up the stairs and she is relieved when she enters the bedroom and sees the little bottle of pills waiting. Sitting on the bed, she reaches for the packet and tries to open it, but the lid appears to be sealed. She attempts to loosen the cover with one hand, but to no avail. She places the box in her sling confined hand and uses her other to wedge the seal, but it only brings another pang of hurt in her shoulder.

A hand appears as if out of nowhere; Hannibal’s stealthy steps escaped her notice as she was focusing all her attention on the bottle. She does not protest when he takes it from her hand, ready to admit defeat. He opens it instantly, the lid surrendering at once under his strong fingers. He hands her the container and waits for her to take the pills, then gives her a glass of water he brought with him.

“Thank you,” she says upon having emptied the glass. The simple yet uncompleted task has left her weary.

Nodding, Hannibal takes the glass back and watches as she lies down on a bed. Bedelia is certain he is _aching_ to help her still but knows she does not like being swathed with concern when she is faced with weakness. The medication takes effect immediately and her thoughts drift away, disappearing into a drug induces oblivion. Her head sinks into the comfort of the pillow and the last thing she takes notice of before falling asleep are Hannibal’s hands pulling the cover gently around her injured side.

 

She does not know how much time has passed, but the sky is already velvet black when she finally opens her eyes. Her head feels heavy, weighted down by the aftereffect of the medication, mind as though covered in candy floss, sticky and sickening. She sits up slowly, her body as disoriented as her thoughts, her skin clammy from the long sleep. The pills do not agree with her; she takes a mental note to dispose of them and find an alternative solution. The inappropriate prescription will certainly push the doctor’s name from Hannibal’s “maybe” list straight into the “to do” file; she decides not to mention it for the moment.

A long bath is what she needs now. She manages to stand up, shaking off the effects of the drug with each careful step she takes. Without turning the bedroom lights on, she finds her way to the bathroom. A flick of a switch illuminates the white and gold fixtures with soft glow, already easing her nerves. She turns on the tap and lets the hot water fill the tub while she adds her favourite bath oil. Soon, the sweet smell of pomegranates infuses the air, warm and inviting steam rising from the tub.

Bedelia returns to the bedroom to remove her clothes; sitting on the bed she succeeds in taking off her skirt but once she unbuttons her shirt, she is again faced with a challenge of how to be rid of it with a minimum effort on her shoulder.

“May I help?” the soft voice comes as if from nowhere and everywhere as Hannibal takes a step forward, suddenly materialising out of thick darkness. Bedelia wonders how long he has been standing there.

“Yes, please,” she has no choice but to accept his offer, inhaling the scented vapour with longing.

She stands up to meet him and Hannibal wastes no time in carefully removing her sling and setting it aside. His fingers move to her shoulders, taking the shirt and pulling it down with care. Absentmindedly, Bedelia moves her arm and winces at the pain.

“I am so sorry,” he says at once, hands stopping at her shoulder blades, alarm in his eyes awakened with a start.

“That is all right,” she smiles at him, head nodding in encouragement, “You did not hurt me.”

She does not mean just this moment, but Hannibal’s conviction of guilt shackles his thoughts still. His warm touch is even gentler now as he continues to peel off the fabric, feeling more like a deliberate caress than a mere assistance.

When the shirt is gone, his hands move to her back, unclasping her bra with effortlessness that has been years in practice. His thumbs hook the straps and drags them slowly down her arms. Bedelia feels her breasts suddenly tender, nipples hard as much due to the sudden exposure to cold air as his touch.

She lets him follow her to the bathroom, but does not take his offered hand, managing to get into the tub by herself. The hot water washes over her limbs and she sighs in relief as the warmth seeps through her skin, right to her tensed muscles.

She hears a faint sound of a bottle being open and soon a fresh aroma of rosemary cuts through the sweetness of pomegranate. Without opening her eyes, she can sense Hannibal standing behind the tub and soon enough, the hand dips in slowly, then pours a handful of water over her hair. She smiles as gentle streams of water continue to spill down her strands. When the flow stops, the scent of herbs grows stronger as Hannibal’s hands begin to massage the shampoo into her hair. He takes his time as usual, fingers running through the length of each strand, fingertips caressing her scalp. His brushes are even softer than usual, another attempt of making up for her injury no doubt, an unnecessary but extremely pleasurable endeavour. She feels weightless, drifting in the water, melting away completely under his caring touch, a relief that no pain medication could ever substitute.

Once the shampoo is rinsed out, she sits up and opens her eyes, then extends her hand, no longer resisting his assistance. Hannibal steps around and wraps his arm around her waist, holding her steady as she steps out of the bathtub. He enfolds her in soft towels, keeping the warmth, and her repose, intact.

 

“Hannibal, it was not your fault.”

They have left the bathroom in a cloud of steam and settled themselves on the bed, Bedelia now wrapped in a soft robe, sitting between Hannibal’s legs as his fingers separate the wet strands of her hair.

Uncharacteristically for him, Hannibal responds with an undistinguished groan, an agreement or dismissal, she cannot say, then takes a brush and begins to comb her hair. Another purposeful distraction, but she gives into the caress at once. The room and his embrace are warm and serene, so unlike the clamminess of her medicated slumber. Her mind is light and contended. But she is not ready to abandon the conversation. Shifting slightly, she turns to face him, careful not to pull at her arm. The brush drops to his lap as Hannibal watches her with heartfelt apprehension.

“It was an accident,” she states firmly, suppressing a smile that threatens to reappear at the thought of the events of the day. It is amusing to her, but not to Hannibal, it seems.

She reaches her other hand out to stroke his cheek, fingers trying to convey the message her words failed to deliver, brushes continuing until she sees some resemblance of recognition breaking through the wall of concern. He smiles faintly as if to admit her reason. But he makes no attempts to reciprocate the caress and sudden understanding strikes Bedelia; he is worried about her having a bad association with his touch which failed to prevent her fall. Her hand cups his cheek again, head tilting in silent appreciation; his self-imposed restrain is endearing, but utterly pointless. If the happenings of last hour proved anything, it is that his touch is not only the most desirable to her but also her best remedy.

“I guess we should refrain from that position,” he speaks at last, voicing his conflicted thoughts and confirming her suspicion.

She smiles; she can’t imagine herself refraining from anything that involves them being intimate. And it was her idea.

“No,” she moves closer to him, sitting on his thigh, “I just need to let you hold me closer next time.”

His eyes widen, the fret giving way to lust he has kept locked away in needless punishment. She knows that is what he loves most. Eager arm wraps around her frame at once as he pulls her even closer to his chest. She is happy to him back at his unrestrained self, but unfortunately, she is not.

“After my shoulder heals,” she reminds him of her current imposition, but leans in and kisses him deeply, a foretaste of things to come.

“Perhaps, I should _practice_ holding you,” he suggests, his lips still savouring hers, a frisky spark in his now untroubled eyes, “Just in case.”

He opens his arms in a gentle invitation and Bedelia chuckles. Carefully, she slides off his lap and turns to press her back against his chest. A firm arm wraps around her waist, keeping her in place, as they both lie down on their sides. Her shoulder secure against his body, she relaxed into his embrace, while the tension in her muscles lessens.

“But I believe you owe me an orgasm,” she teases him, her own playfulness returning, now that she is safe and comfortable in his arms.

“With interest, that will amount to at least two,” he whispers eagerly and plants a kiss on her temple, sealing the promise.

Humming in delight, she tilts her head, demanding further guarantee from his lips.

And she looks forward to claiming her debt.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to k who suggested the sex injury idea for "Hannibal looks after injured Bedelia" prompt and my mind just went all crazy about it! I am all for unusual situations between them with a dash of fun and tons of domestic love. I smiled the whole time while writing this.  
> In case my descriptions failed: the position Bedelia chose is a sort of inverted table top position, but with legs resting on the chair. Hannibal could have held her legs, but that would ruin my premise. He will definitely hold her the next time :)  
> Thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed it!


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